Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

“Uh, dumped hard. ”

“Man, I was rooting for those two.”

“Word is he’s boning one of the other agents,” said Spalding. “You know that tall blonde?”

“When you’re my size, bro, they’re all tall.”

“I talked to her in the kitchen once and she is nice. I’ve seen her and the dude together and, yeah, it’s definitely on.”

Christian smiled half-drunkenly. “So, what I hear you saying, the President’s wife is now available.”

“She’s five-ten, douchebag. You better learn to pole-vault.”

“Aw shit.” Christian was checking his texts. “Hey, I’ve gotta re-test the Cabo first thing tomorrow. Can you swing by at eight?”

“Maybe nine,” said Spalding.

“Eight-thirty at the latest. The big man himself is coming at ten.”

“Can I stay for the show?”

Christian shook his head. “Speak of the devil,” he murmured.

He was staring past Spalding, who turned to see. It was the First Lady entering the restaurant behind a small wedge of Secret Service agents. She sat down alone at a corner table.

“God, you’re right,” said Christian. “She’s a bloody stork.”

Spalding turned back and attacked the last slice of raw wahoo. He said, “I feel sorry for the lady.”

“Sweet tan. It’s bottled bronzer, though. You can tell.”

“Is the agent dude with her now? The ex.”

“I don’t know which one’s him. Anyway, it’s too dark,” Christian said.

Their server appeared with the check and said the restaurant was closing early. As Spalding and Christian made their way to the door, they peeked sideways at the President’s chic wife, skimming the menu and sipping Chablis.

As soon as the place was empty, Mockingbird stood up and went to the ladies’ restroom, which had been cleared earlier by Agent Jennifer Rose. Posted solo in the vanity area was Keith Josephson, who within moments was summoned inside one of the stalls.

“Ahmet, what the hell?” Mockingbird said, angrily poking his chest with a finger.

“You’re the one that told me to flirt.”

“Everyone on the property is talking about you two.”

“I know, but wasn’t that the point?” Ahmet said. “To stop the rumors about us?”

“No, you’re enjoying this way too much. The woman who does my peddies, she says one of the housekeepers overheard you and Agent Rose chatty-chatting the other day. By the way, she does not have a steady boyfriend. I checked up on that.”

Ahmet was caught off guard by Mockingbird’s jealous outburst, yet still it felt good to be standing so close to her. She was wearing a perfume that smelled like a minty alpine waterfall.

“Are you sleeping with her?” she asked, further startling him.

“No, ma’am, I’m not. No!”

“Do you want to sleep with her? What if she asks for it? Tell the truth, Ahmet. Not even a quickie?”

“Same answer: No! But, again, this whole crazy thing was your idea, not mine.”

“And you told me you were a lousy actor.”

Ahmet realized he was trapped in conversation purgatory. All he could do was ride it out. A voice in his earpiece inquired about the First Lady’s prolonged restroom visit. He replied that she was retouching her mascara.

Then to her he said, “I was being honest. I am a terrible actor.”

“Are you now?” She crossed her arms and glowered. “Men are all the same. You, my pig husband, no difference.”

Ahmet bent down to kiss her, but Mockingbird turned her face away. He was hurt to see her pluck off the conch pearl earrings and theatrically drop them in the toilet, one at a time.

He fished them out and dried them with a handkerchief.

“So, Keith, ” Mockingbird said, “when did you plan to tell me about the maple armoire?”

“The what?”

“The Shaker piece you promised to make for Agent Rose.”

Ahmet rocked back against the stall door, an involuntary reaction he perceived as self-incriminating. He theorized that the woodworking intel had come from the eavesdropping housekeeper.

“It’s not an armoire, it’s a writing desk,” he said thickly. “And all I told her was pine, not maple. Ordinary Georgia pine.”

“Asshole!” Mockingbird cried. The word seemed to ring off the tiles as Ahmet rushed to follow her out of the restroom.

—

Because Angie had no close girlfriends, she dragged Joel along the next morning when she went to Worth Avenue. Shopping for gowns was a new but not unsatisfying experience. Eventually she picked out a sleeveless jungle-print Versace that Joel noted was actually a dress, and probably too short for the Commander’s Ball.

“Not if I have to climb a fucking tree,” Angie said. “Do you like it or not?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty hot.”

“Eeewww, stepson.”

“Just buy the damn thing so we can get out of here,” he said.

The dress cost eighteen hundred dollars, which almost maxed out Angie’s credit card. She texted a photo of the receipt to Paul Ryskamp saying a prompt reimbursement would be appreciated.

Joel was up for tacos so they went across the bridge to Rocco’s, where Krista met them. She and Joel had moved back to her condo; they reported that Dustin and Alexandria weren’t getting along. Angie was proud of herself for not feeling uplifted by the news.

“She’s bugging him to build her a new horse barn,” Joel said, plainly taking his father’s side, “and attach a yoga studio.”

“Might cost be an issue?” asked Angie, without mischief.

“They’ll work it out,” was Krista’s assessment.

“Or strangle each other,” said Joel with a shrug.

Angie inquired about the sling on Krista’s right arm.

“What happens when ashtanga vinyasa is taught by an amateur,” was her weary reply. “The woman is possessed.”

“You’re a good sport,” Angie said.

They ordered beers and toasted Joel’s new assistant-manager job at Staples. He said he was scheduled to start the following week. Krista wanted to hear more about Angie’s upcoming gig at the Commander’s Ball, but Angie said she wasn’t supposed to talk about it, which was the truth.

“Are you bringing a date?” Krista asked.

“No, a machete.”

Joel said, “She isn’t joking.”

“I’m not allowed to have a gun,” Angie elaborated. “It’s the law.”

“Okay. Wow.” Krista had no follow-up questions.

After lunch, Angie got in her pickup and headed out Okeechobee Road toward the interstate. Joel and Krista were in the same lane, directly ahead in Krista’s VW sedan. They’d all stopped at the railroad tracks, waiting for a half-empty passenger train to pass, when Angie noticed who was driving the green minivan behind her.

It was Pruitt, the dumb lunatic. He had a stranglehold on the steering wheel with his good hand—gloved—and his bare prosthetic. His disguise was neon-framed shades, a dark knit cap, and an unfortunate Rasta-style beard. Under different circumstances, Angie would have burst out laughing. But clearly Pruitt was on the hunt, undaunted by the interactive bobcat experience that Angie had arranged at his sister’s place.

The crossing gates went up and traffic began to move. Angie grabbed for her phone but it fell down the crack between her seat and the console. She was taken by surprise when Pruitt flew past her and then suddenly cut back, forcing her to stomp the brakes. When she caught up to him, he was tailgating Krista’s VW.

Angie got a chill down her neck. Krista and Joel were probably busy talking, unaware of what was happening. They’d be going north on I-95, and the entry ramp was already in sight. Angie considered sideswiping Pruitt’s minivan but she decided to wait; she couldn’t risk causing a crash that might hurt other drivers.